


Crawling on Back to You

by tiptoe39



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Chair Sex, Frottage, M/M, Masturbation in Shower, Season/Series 08, men of letters HQ
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 01:35:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/681196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiptoe39/pseuds/tiptoe39
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>When the day is done and the sun goes down and the moonlight's shining through<br/>Then like a sinner before the gates of heaven I'll come crawling on back to you</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crawling on Back to You

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [Catstiella's](http://catstiella.tumblr.com) prompt and first posted on Tumblr in two parts. Thanks!

“He’s not answering.”  
  
It was a throwaway line, but Dean had looked away from Sam when he’d said it, flipped a few pages on whatever book was resting on the table as though he were ten times more interested in whatever that old tome had held than the whereabouts of his best friend. And he still thinks of Cas like that, despite everything, despite his suspicions… Cas is a friend, and any time he’s not acting like one, there’s something else going on. Dean’s seen it happen enough times to recognize the pattern. And something is going on now.  
  
He steps into the shower, looks around at the tile. White with black borders, like the wings whose shadows Castiel had shown him at first, long before he had manifested a set of wings from which Dean could actually pluck feathers. Fat lot of good those had done him, except get stolen. Stilll, knowing he had ‘em was empowering somehow. He was toting angel feathers. From an angel who gave them over willingly. Could be worse. Some dudes are proud of the dead bodies they’ve got in the trunk of their cars, right? Never mind that half the time, he was that dude, too.  
  
Water pressure’s great, and Dean’s relaxing despite himself, mind breathing through the walls he puts up around everyone else. He can think freely again. Cas. Jesus, but Dean’s frigging worried about him. He gets why Cas broke his vow not rto go back to heaven — wanting to take Samandriel up to his final resting place was a respectful thing to do — but he could have sworn Cas would be back by now. Or at least get in touch. He shudders to think that maybe Cas got trapped up there, that maybe he stayed around long enough to look at the landscape and then make good on that urge he had said he would afraid might overtake him —-  
  
shit, shit, _no._ Cas is fine. Fine, and any minute he’ll pop into the room, probably while Dean’s still in the shower, and that’ll be awkward and embarrassing because Dean’s really had his share of gay things lately…  
  
and speaking of which when the hell did he get his dick in his hand?  
  
He looks down. It rests, fat and half-hard, in the circle of his palm, and as he curls his fingers around it, it twitches and thickens more. Dean presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth, stifling a noise. God, sometimes he just doesn’t notice what his own hands are doing.  
  
But maybe his body’s got the right idea. Maybe a quick jerkoff in the shower will be enough to take the edge off so he can go back out there and face whetever the hell comes next.  
  
He leans back into the spray., takes a long stroke, upward to the tip, pausing under the ridge and savoring that moment when fingers meet head and he’s fighting a flash of sensation. Ugh, it’s good, delicious relaxing good, and so’s the shower. He twists his wrist, wrings a bit and pushes back down to the base. A roll of pleasure goes through him, and he opens his eyes to focus on nothing, just sort of staring dully at the condensation on the tiles.  
  
White-on-black, Cas’s wings,  
  
And that’s Cas’s problem, isn’t it? He’s white on a black background, he’s too good in a world of too much badness, and if it’s weird to be thinking this while jerking off Dean doesn’t much care. It just is, he just is, stroking in a regular rhythm, his hips canted forward just enough that his hand can catch the slide of his dick easily, and thinking about Castiel being too good for the world. Certainly too good for Dean, and still Dean’d had the temerity to tell Cas he needed him, that he wouldn’t leave Purgatory without him. Funny how that turned out. Funny how Cas had left him alone, funny how he’d showed up one more time and left again.  
  
And now nothing. And Dean wonders how many times he’ll finally give up only to have Castiel there, waiting, strange and silent and patient. And he wonders whether, as long as he holds that hope, Cas won’t show.  
  
“Damn it,” he grunts, and jerks harder.  
  
The feeling swells up, crests, and fades. Dean doesn’t feel like finishing. He lets go, rinses off, and steps out of the shower, sliding the robe on and examining his face in the mirror (goddamn, look the circles under his eyes) before leaving the bathroom and walking back out into the hub.  
  
To find Castiel standing there.  
  
“Of course,” Dean says, dully. Because it just doesn’t work to be surprised anymore.  
  
Castiel stands by the table in the library of the Men of Letters. His fingers drift over a page or to, and his head lifts, eyes darting here and there as though mentally searching all the books. There’s something different about him as he stands there, something Dean can’t put his finger on. Nothing so obvious as a beard or a bloody trenchcoat. Just something truly off, something Dean’s never seen before.  
  
His eyes finish their sweep of the room and settle on Dean’s.  
  
And Dean knows why he looks different.  
  
They’re red.

“Cas,” he says. And then, after a beat, “have you been… crying?”

In response, Castiel takes a first, halting step forward… and then another. His breath hitches. Dean moves forward automatically, arms reaching out as though to a stumbling toddler. Cas is gonna fall, and he’s not gonna be there in time to catch him.  
  
But improbably, wobbly though he is, Castiel bridges the gap between them, hands alighting on Dean’s robed arms and clutching firmly into the soft fabric. In another moment Dean’s winded by the weight of his chest, and the next Castiel’s head is on Dean’s shoulder, bowed, and Dean can feel the hot wetness of tears staining through the bathrobe.  
  
“Cas,” he chokes out. “What— what’s wrong,” and knowing he’s not going to get an answer, he folds his arms over Castiel’s back and just holds him.  
  
Seconds and minutes go by. Dean looks up at the high ceiling, around at the silent library, and feels the weight in his arms. Castiel’s not sobbing, but he’s shaking a little, and Dean doesn’t know if he’s spastic or sick or upset or what. Maybe he should slap him, maybe he should tell him to get a grip. Shake him, but he’s already shaking. And so he just waits, out of no other idea what to do, and slowly the trembling subsides, slowly Castiel lifts his head an inch at a time, and when his eyes meet Dean’s again Dean lifts a thumb to wipe away an errant tear.  
  
“Talk to me,” he says. Like he said in that motel room, ages ago, before Castiel said…  
  
Oh, God.  
  
“I can trust you,” Castiel says, and his voice curls up at the end, almost a question.  
  
“Yeah.” Silence around Cas always feels like it ought to be filled. “Yeah, you can trust me.”  
  
“You’re the only one I can trust,” Castiel says. “You’re the only one who always tells me the truth. I need the truth.”  
  
He looks wild, untamed, like he’s afraid the fabric of reality will fall down around him any minute. Dean read up on Lovecraft after they ran into the guy’s papers, and if Cas looks like anything right now, he looks like the kind of guy who’s seen one of Lovecraft’s creatures up close.  
  
“Anything,” he says quickly. He cups Castiel’s face in one hand, holds it steady. “Ask me anything, Cas. I’ll tell you the truth.”  
  
Castiel leans forward into the touch. His lips tremble.  
  
“Are you real?” he asks.  
  
Is Castiel even doubting that?  
  
“Yeah,” Dean breaths. “Yeah, I’m real, Cas. You’re here, you’re on Earth, you’re with me. You’re—” He’s gonna say “you’re safe,” but he doesn’t know if that’s true. Instead, he just repeats himself. “I’m real.”  
  
“Thank God,” Castiel says, and leans in again. Only this time he doesn’t drop his head onto Dean’s shoulder. He grips Dean’s head in two firm palms and kisses his mouth.  
  
Dean just stands there and takes it a minute. He doesn’t know what else to do. This has never crossed his mind. At least, not for more than a moment. But this kiss… this is a test, isn’t it? To see if Dean will fade beneath his touch and prove to be less than real? He has to hold it, he has to take it, if only to prove to Cas that he can be counted on. To keep Cas from falling apart.  
  
It would be a lot easier to take if the kiss weren’t lighting tiny blooming fires all through him, if his arms didn’t suddenly ache to gather Cas up closer, run fingers along his spine and make sure he was real.  
  
To make this kiss real.  
  
And then he thinks about the shower he took and he thinks, _fuck it, really._  
  
The emotions pour out with each moment, with every sudden grab of Dean’s fingertips against Castiel’s skin. The worn trenchcoat sliding off and flopping onto the floor is the shedding of a hundred false memories, a thousand excuses. Dean’s hands under Castiel’s shirt, undoing his tie, are the culmination of all of the times he stole a glance, slapped Cas on the back — all the not-enough touches, pretendings. And Castiel’s whimpers into his mouth are the words they never shared, the times they almost-talked about this but but didn’t, held back. Memories rewritten, the past culminating in the moment when Dean steps backward and falls into the big, plush armchair and reaches out to a half-naked Castiel to join him.  
  
Now he’s red-faced but not red-eyed. He startles, blinks. “Dean,” he says.  
  
Dean takes a breath. “I—”  
  
He’s got nothing to say. They both just remain, regarding each other, trying to figure out what in the name of heaven is happening.  
  
“I can trust you,” Castiel says, finally. He sounds a little mechanical, like a pull-string talking doll.  
  
“Yeah,” Dean says quickly, “yeah, but you don’t have to—”  
  
“I can tell you this.”  
  
“Tell me what?”  
  
“A secret,” Castiel says, and breathes heavily. He bites his lip. “A secret you .. already know, but…”  
  
“I won’t tell anyone,” Dean says automatically. He reaches out and takes Cas’s hand “Not even Sam, Cas, not if you need me to.”  
  
Castiel shakes his head. “Sam can know,” he says. “He’s your brother.”  
  
“What kind of secret is this?” Dean’s dizzy, winded and lost. A minute ago they were making out, and now there’s secret-telling and Castiel’s being his old cryptic self. “You said I already know it?”  
  
Castiel nods. He squeezes Dean’s hand and takes a deep breath.  
  
He moves forward and straddles Dean’s legs. “I want to be with you, Dean,” he whispers as he leans in for another kiss.  
  
Oh, and that’s the most potent secret of all. It slams Dean in the heart, forces his blood into frantic pumping, and as Castiel’s fingers slide down to part his robe and splay hands across his chest Dean’s surprised the blood vessels under his skin don’t leap out to meet him.   
  
Dean arches up, as though compelled by them, searching, his mouth open to Castiel’s, his eyes squeezed shut to savor and taste and experience this powerful secret, this thing that’s shattered his world and put it back together stronger than when it began. Yes. Of course. Cas, and him, like this. It was always supposed to be like this, and that’s why it’s always hurt so much. To look at him, to not look at him. To hear from him, to go ignored for months at a time. When Castiel betrayed him, when Castiel left him, it burned this badly, because when Castiel finally found his way into Dean’s arms, it would burn this well.  
  
Castiel is grinding down on Dean, slave to an urge he can’t name, and Dean parts his legs, lets his robe fall open so Castiel can see and touch and imitate. He’s quick, hurried, punctuating every step of his journey toward nakedness with another hot kiss on Dean’s mouth. When his ass slides across Dean’s thighs, it’s skin-on-skin like Dean has never felt before. It’s close, comfortable, right.  
  
“Cas,” Dean whispers, his fingers tracing the shape of Castiel’s jaw, sliding down the back of his neck. The kisses go on, deep and desperate, and despite the hard press of his cock and the incredible feel of Castiel’s bare legs against his all of his energy and attention is on Castiel’s mouth, on the pure and hot connection that exists between them there. Dean’s heart is in his throat, so maybe that’s why. Maybe it’s as close as their hearts can come.  
  
Then Castiel slides forward another inch and his cock bumps and drags against Dean’s, and everything’s different.  
  
“Fuck,” Dean hisses, the word dragging out long through gritting teeth, and he breaks away to lean his head back against the back of the chair, his hands comine down to grab the arms as shockwaves of want fly up through his body.  
  
Castiel, the fucker that he is, knows exactly what he’s done, and he does it again.  
  
A hitch, and then another drag; Castiel’s lips on his neck now, sucking kisses and nips and licks there, and “Dean” in his ear like it’s a holy word, a sacred name…. Dean rears up, still clutching the arms of the chair, lifting Castiel’s whole body with the force of his hips and thighs. Oh, God help him, his whole body is raging with desire now, and he wants to force Castiel’s wet mouth down, wants to bury himself inside Castiel’s body until they’re locked together forever body and soul, wants anything and everything he can get with this missing part of his soul that he’s just now recognized.  
  
For now, though, he lets go of one arm of the chair and reaches over with a trembling hand to curl his fingers around Castiel’s cock.  
  
Castiel gasps and shudders hard, forgetting himself and just exhaling on Dean’s shoulder; Dean smiles, maybe for the first time since this started, and guides him forward with a slow tug until their cocks are bumping again. They’re not quite in the right alignment to rub together, but Dean can still guide the heads to touch, giving them dots of light contact that feel like bolts of lightning. Shocks of intense sensation make Castiel jump and groan and cry out and at one point sink his teeth too hard into Dean’s shoulder. Dean fights the urge to flinch. He’ll take the pain if it’s part of Castiel learning how they can be together like this.  
  
It’s amazing how quickly Dean feels wetness on the head of their cocks when he brings them together again. It’s doubly amazing he’s not sure if it’s him or Castiel who’s begun to leak first. Maybe both of them.  
  
Castiel reaches down, too, catching Dean’s eyes as he does. His fingers are still shaking as he apes Dean’s movements, stroking Dean’s cock unsurely, visibly amazed at each blush of warmth and twitch beneath his fingertips. “Dean,” he starts to say, and then shakes his head.  
  
“S’ok, Cas,” Dean manages through thin breaths of his own. “Don’t — don’t say, just … keep goin’—-” and he just has to spit out another swear because Castiel’s drawing his fingers upward, his fist a sheath of heat and silk as it slides over the head of Dean’s cock. It drives the pleasure downward as it sinks to the root, forcing it deep into Dean’s balls, and at once Dean’s teetering on the edge, his head spinning, his heart throbbing hopelessly high in his chest as he fights for breath.  
  
He leans forward and grabs Castiel’s mouth with his own again, because it’s all he can do, because he’s about to let go and scream into Castiel’s mouth and he can’t let go of the one arm of the chair because he’s sure the universe will lose its very balance and fall into the void if he does. It’s crazy and doesn’t make sense and he’s so hot and so desperate for Castiel’s body that he doesn’t care.  
  
Castiel tries to flip his tongue across the roof of his mouth to say Dean’s name but Dean catches it with his own, strokes it forward, and the noise Castiel makes is shapeless and desperate. He’s humping against Dean’s fist now, motion all thrusts and shudders, and Dean finds himself holding back just to draw Castiel a little closer, to drive him a little crazier.  
  
And because it was always supposed to be like this, when Castiel comes to the edge of his control Dean lets go of his own, guiding him over the edge with a shout and a messy spurt all over both of them. He’s shaking hard in the chair, his fingers locked hard around Castiel’s cock, and when they loosen Castiel follows him immediately, bursting and shaking and crying out. Their mouths break to let a final pair of cries into the air, and then they’re kissing agan, kissing harder than ever, because it’s that good, that overwhelming and all they can do is hold on to each other in every way they know how.  
  
The chair creaks beneath Dean’s weight, and Dean wonders for the first time if it wasn’t built for this kind of activity. That’s when he knows the immediate ecstasy is past and their minds are coming back online. He wipes his hand on the robe, then lays his fingers spread across Castiel’s back. Castiel pants and hangs his head, leaning again on Dean’s shoulder, this time not for support but out of exhaustion.  
  
God, what do they say now? What are the first words after… after all that?  
  
Castiel knows. God bless him, Castiel takes all the awkwardness away in a single question.  
  
“Can I stay here?”  
  
And Dean doesn’t know if he means Earth, or this hideout, or Dean’s lap, but he sure as hell knows the answer is yes.

 


End file.
